


Tysha always pays her debts

by sunday5



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Disturbing violence, F/M, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunday5/pseuds/sunday5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You may think you know Tysha's tragic story.  But perhaps you missed the part where she grows up and joins forces with a Faceless Man from Braavos to exact revenge on every single person who did her wrong that day.  A story of innocence lost and ultimate retribution.  *Not for the faint-hearted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_'I loved a maid as fair as summer_

_with sunlight in her hair.'_

Tysha Silverton was a crofter's daughter. She was fourteen and a half years old, and she was in love.

She walked briskly along the narrow path that cut between the trees on the outskirts of Lannisport, carrying two baskets full of the ingredients she'd bought for supper that evening. The path led to a one-bedroom clapboard cottage which she shared with her new husband. The thought of him made Tysha smile to herself, and her insides melt.  _I hope he likes the cinnamon apricot tarte I have planned for tonight,_ she thought.  _I hope the apricots are not over-ripe._

_'I loved a maid as red as autumn_

_with sunset in her hair.'_

Tysha was singing a song that she heard sometimes, played by the buskers in Lannisport Square, or drifting in bawdy voices out of Inns late at night. She had a tuneful voice, high and soft, and she was singing as she walked home, because she was happy.

Her new husband was clever, and funny, and kind; he was wealthy and well-educated and above all else he made her feel like she was the most special girl in the entire world. Whenever she thought about the last couple of weeks, she could scarce believe how lucky she was.

Tysha wasn't used to being the recipient of such intense adoration. Being the middle-child of a nine child family, with four older siblings and four younger, was not exactly the sort of position that got one much attention in life. Because the children tended to be seen by their father as needing help in priority from the youngest up, and being given rights from the oldest down, Tysha was therefore low in both counts.

When family decisions were being made, her opinions were drowned out. Whenever there was any spare food or clothing, it ran out before it reached her. One year when the harvest had been good, her father had bought some building tools and added an extension on the back of their cottage, but miscalculated the number of beds to be fitted in. This was why Tysha had slept the last five years in the stable hay-loft. She didn't mind. The mule and the sheep were less noisy and generally smelled better than her siblings.

The crofter had been dead a year now, of a fever that dragged on almost a week, and took his two youngest children with him. His wife had been dead for near ten years. Tysha could barely remember her mother, only as a certain scent that came across her on rare occasions, when she was shopping at the markets in Lannisport. Her mother must have loved eating raspberries, because whenever the red berries were in season and Tysha caught a whiff of them on a passing fruit vendor's cart, a brief and elusive memory flashed through her. A slim woman, bright blue eyes, dark hair, a wide red mouth, a musical laugh. That's all that remained of Tysha's mother. That, and the smell of raspberries.

Since the crofter had died, life had been hard on their little farm. From the moment Tysha woke up in the morning and pulled on her apron and boots, until the sun set at night, she applied herself to the never-ending chores. Keeping even a small farm going was hard work, but without it none of the five remaining family members would have a roof over their heads. If they also got a meal every few days or so, that was a bonus.

This was Tysha's life up until a fortnight ago, when it changed forever.

If anyone had asked her on the morning of that life-changing day, if anything significant was about to happen to her, she would have laughed in their face. It wasn't a market day, so there was not even the promise of one of her light-fingered sisters stealing any extra food as it was unloaded in the busy trading-place, maybe a sweet dried fig or a bar of sticky date cake; worth the risk for the tiny sliver each of them got after it had been split five ways. It wasn't the end of the month so Tysha's oldest brother wasn't due home with his squire's wages to tide them over. It was a cold morning but not overly so, and none of the younger children were sick, for once. So looking back, the morning her life changed forever had been remarkable only in its unremarkableness.

When Tysha had crawled out of her hay-bed that morning and made her way down the rickety ladder to the stable floor, she had no inkling of her future. If the gods were sending her any premonitions of the events lying in store for her, she was completely oblivious to them. The only thing that caught her attention that morning was that Patches the mule had for some reason decided to chew off the end of his tail.

'Why'd you do that for, idiot,' Tysha sighed, when she saw it. Patches was already as ugly an animal as it was possible to be, even without a missing tuft on his tail. He had a skinny neck that looked set on upside-down, and a head shaped like a brick. His tiny eyes were ringed in crusty pink skin so that he looked permanently angry. He wasn't angry, Tysha knew, he was actually a very sweet-tempered mule, as mules go. The crusty skin around his eyes was some kind of fungal infection, or maybe lice infestation, that the crofter had never really managed to wipe out, despite regularly dousing the mule in foul-smelling lotions and powders. Since her father's death, the lice or fungus or whatever it was that inhabited Patches' fur had returned as bad as ever. Actually, worse. There was more bare skin than fur on him these days.

Tysha looked at the mule's raggedy tail-end that morning and figured that the lice must have set up camp in the tufty bit and it had got so itchy that Patches had resorted to chewing the whole thing off.

She opened the door to his stall, buckled on his halter and led him out. He stood quietly as she brushed the straw off his back and lifted on his harness with the panniers attached either side. Her first job of that morning, and every morning, was to take the mule out to fetch water from the nearby well, and bring it back so that everyone in the house could have a cup of tea, and who's ever turn it was that day could clean their faces and hands.

As Tysha had set off for the well that morning with Patches plodding alongside, she'd had no idea whatsoever of the twists of fate awaiting her. From terrifying lows to thrilling highs. She would be frightened, but she would also meet the man of her dreams.

Tysha smiled, remembering that note-worthy day, as she walked up the path to her new home. The man of her dreams had been there to rescue her, as dream-men always do. A 21 year old, golden-haired god, with a reckless attitude and an unwavering belief in his own superiority. As soon as he'd seen her and drawn his sword, she'd known that this was a young man who was scared of nothing and no-one, and who had no reason to be. He was exactly the sort of man Tysha had always dreamt about but never expected to actually meet in real life, let alone out in the woods on a day when she was in dire need of help. And he just happened to be the older brother of the boy she ended up falling in love with instead. And marrying.

 _My husband. Tyrion._ She liked his name. It went so well with her own. Tysha and Tyrion, they were quite obviously names that belonged together.

_'I loved a maid as white as winter_

_with moonglow in her hair.'_

She hummed the last verse as she approached her cottage, and noticed that there were four horses tied up outside. Tyrion had not mentioned any planned visitors to her before she'd left for the market, so Tysha paused for a moment, her baskets swinging loosely by her sides. The horses' brow-bands caught the sun with the gold patterns embossed into the leather, and their saddle blankets were embroidered with red and gold insignias. One of the horses was a huge white destrier, his shoulder taller than Tysha's head, with a rump as broad across as a wagon and hooves that looked large enough to crush a skull like a plum. Tysha felt just one tiny prickle of foreboding as she looked at that massive horse. But premonitions were not her strong suit, so she shook it off and went on up the path to her front door.


	2. 2

Tysha walked up the three stone steps to her cottage and opened the door. Inside, the small room seemed even smaller with four men in chainmail and cloaks standing in it. Tyrion sat on the bed in the corner, with his hands clasped between his knees, looking worried.

The bed was carved dark wood, wide, well-sprung, with silk covered pillows, and a mattress stuffed with duck feathers. It was the best bed gold could buy in Lannisport, and it also served as a couch. In fact, there was very little else in the room. Not even a table. Only the bed, a pot-bellied stove and a wash basin.

'M'Lords,' Tysha said, bobbing a curtsey. She averted her gaze from them, kept her eyes downcast. She knew these men were Nobility and she guessed they might be Tyrion's family. Because he had told her he was from a Noble House, a powerful House; the most powerful and richest House in the region. Of course, she knew that. One ring on her new husband's finger had been worth more than anything Tysha's family owned or would ever own.

It was nothing short of liberating to be in love with, and to be loved by, someone so wealthy. It was how her and Tyrion had come to own their little cottage. It was how they ate so well every night. It was how they had bought the best bed, which they'd sat on, eaten the best foods on, slept in, made love in, shared secrets and cuddled and laughed in and scarcely left, for the last two weeks.

But the reality of her husband's wealth had never really sunk in. To Tysha, he was just the person she loved, the person who had taken her away from her life of poverty and made her feel happy in a way she hadn't known was possible. She'd not thought much about anything, beyond him. In the warmth and safety of their bed, they had simply been Tyrion and Tysha, two people in love. Equals.

Now these men were standing silently in the room, with their fine clothes and polished weapons and supercilious faces, and they were definitely powerful men. Rich men. They were not the sort of men Tysha had spent any time around before, and it was intimidating. She wanted to run over and sit next to Tyrion, hold his hand in hers, but the men were in between them so she just stood there and kept her eyes to the floor.

Finally one of them spoke. 'And you must be the...  _wife_.' His accent was cultivated, similar to Tyrion's but more so. Each word was so precisely enunciated, it sounded to Tysha like the syllables were shards of glass cutting straight through her. She lifted her head and looked at the man. He had steel grey hair, a blood-red sash draped from his shoulder, and a face like a hawk.

'Yes, M'Lord,' she nodded. 'I'm Tysha.'

'And you wed my son, I take it?'

She nodded again.

'And what have you there in those baskets, girl?' the man enquired, in his cold, sharp voice. 'Supper for the newly-weds, is it? Let me see. Apricots, cinnamon sugar, pecans...' He surveyed her purchases. 'I hear the orchards had an outstanding crop of apricots this year. Terribly expensive though. It's good to be able to afford nice things. Isn't it?'

Before Tysha could reply, Tyrion interjected, in a tone of voice that Tysha hadn't heard him use before, timorous and pleading. He sounded like a little child, not her confident and witty husband. 'She didn't wed me for our gold, Father. She doesn't care about our gold.'

The hard-faced man turned slowly and regarded Tyrion without emotion, only a slight narrowing of his faded eyes. Then he motioned to the three men standing nearby. 'Come. Let's speak of this further once we are back at Casterly Rock. Tyrion, you ride with me, the Captain will take the girl. Your brother has many things to tell you.'

Tysha moved then, quick. As one of the men took a step and reached for her, she dropped her baskets and ran to Tyrion's side. He put his arms around her waist without hesitation, and she wrapped hers around his neck, and they held each other tighter than they ever had before. She didn't let go until the Captain of the Guard wrenched her from him.

Outside, they were lifted onto horses and the men mounted behind them. Tysha had never been on such a large animal, and when it shifted sideways her stomach dipped. She clung to the saddle.

Her eyes met Tyrion's as he sat across from her on the huge white charger of his father's; he looked anxious but determined. Tysha wondered if this was the first time he had defied his father in anything, and felt briefly flattered and proud that she was the reason for it _. If he can be strong then so can I._ She wanted to call out and tell him that she loved him; that whatever happened they would still always have each other, but then her horse lunged forward and it was all she could do to clutch its mane and hold on.

* * *

 

In the room where they'd taken her, there were no windows. She sat on the bench and wondered if she would be allowed inside the castle. She'd glimpsed it through the trees as they'd ridden past, an immense towering mountain of stone with enormous arches in the shape of roaring lions' heads, topped with battlements spiking into the sky. Tyrion had been taken there, and she on to this plain room, somewhere amid the outhouses and servant's quarters and guard barracks and other unidentified low buildings surrounding the estate.

 _This is where my husband's family lives_ , she thought, incredulously.  _In this enormous castle. With servants and feasts and enough rooms to hold an entire town._ Try as she might, Tysha couldn't imagine her husband here. He belonged in their small cottage, gathering wood for their small fire, helping her fetch water and eating the humble meals that she prepared each night.  _Might I live here, too?_ she thought. It didn't seem possible.  _Why am I here, then? Why am I not with Tyrion?_

She sat and waited, picking the hem of her apron nervously. After what seemed a long time but probably wasn't, the door to the room opened and the man she now knew was Tyrion's father walked in, accompanied by his Captain of the Guard, who she had ridden with on the way here. He carried a tray of food which he set down on the table in front of her. Then, he nodded at Tyrion's father and left the room.

Tysha smiled, but the man standing in front of her didn't smile back.

'Eat,' he said. 'You must be hungry.'

She wasn't, but she picked up the fork and did as he bid. The meats were tender and the glass of wine was sweet, almost too sweet. The man stood and watched her without speaking until she was finished. It was unnerving, but she forced herself to chew and swallow the meal as she knew was polite. She put the fork back on the plate when she was done.

'I trust you enjoyed my hospitality,' Tyrion's father said, then.

'Yes, thank you M'Lord.'

'It's not often you would have had the privilege of eating a meal prepared in a Lord's kitchens, I presume.'

'No, M'Lord. Never.'

'I guess you thought that this might be the start of more of such privileges for you.'

Tysha didn't answer, unsure what he meant.

Tyrion's father went on in a grim voice, 'I guess you thought marrying into the Lannister family meant that you too might become a Lannister.'

She shook her head. 'I... I didn't think...'

'Well you were wrong. We don't have gold-digging little commoners marrying into our family. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but my youngest son is not particularly discriminating when it comes to women. Apparently when you didn't express as much revulsion at his appearance as all the others, he thought himself to be in love with you.'  He gave a short, harsh laugh.

'Tyrion is not... his appearance is pleasing to me,' Tysha said. 'I love him.' She faced the man with a resolute air, stung by his description of her.

'I don't doubt you love his gold. It must have made the unpleasant task of bedding the stunted cripple easier, picturing all of that Lannister gold.'

Tysha knew what she wanted to say, exactly what she wanted to say, but she couldn't. For some reason her mouth refused to form the words properly.  Her head tipped, heavy. She slumped back down on the bench, staring straight ahead, feeling the paralysis creeping outwards through her limbs.

Tyrion's father twitched up one side of his lip, which couldn't have been called a smile but he was evidently pleased nonetheless.

'There are plenty of coins for you,' he said, 'but first you must earn them. As a whore should. You will not find a more generous opportunity than that which I am providing for you here today.'

Her eyes must have shown her confusion and alarm. She attempted to stand, but her legs wouldn't support her.

'Don't try to resist,' Tyrion's father said. 'The maester kindly put a sedative in your wine. It has rendered you incapable of any insincere protest you may have wished to make. But don't worry, your mind shall remain perfectly clear, so you can experience it all. What use is a lesson after all, if it is not fully experienced?'

The Captain re-entered the room with another guard, and Tyrion's father asked, 'Are they all here?' The Captain nodded. Then the two men pulled Tysha up by her elbows, ripped off her outer clothing, removed her shoes, and half-carried her to the door. She felt a stab of panic and terror, but she was trapped in an unresponsive body. Her legs were weak as blades of grass and her bare feet dragged limply along the floor.

The door led out into a long hall, a barracks hall, which was full of guards standing in rows. The only furniture in it was a single bed that had been placed at the front against the wall. Not far from the bed were two chairs and on one of them sat her husband, Tyrion. Even in her helpless dread, Tysha was glad to see him.  _At least he is here._  She didn't feel so alone, knowing he was nearby.

They lifted her onto the bed and she lay back, flopping like a boneless puppet. Above her on the high ceiling were set lines of thin windows, letting in pale strips of light that patterned the walls like scars. Tysha could barely move, but her senses worked as normal, so she stared at the windows and listened to Tyrion's father address his guards.

'The whore is yours to use as you please, and I have provided each of you with a silver coin to pay her for her services today. She is as young and comely as she is ambitious, so the transaction should be mutually beneficial for all involved.'

He then walked over to sit beside Tyrion on the vacant chair.

The Captain of the Guard was the first man to approach the bed, press a cold silver coin into Tysha's hand, then push up her slip, spread her slack legs and climb on top of her.

It was unthinkable that this was happening, she couldn't comprehend it. She stared at the Captain's face, barely inches from her own. He had wavy reddish hair and a wispy beard. His cheeks were round and he had freckles on his nose. His eyes were blueish grey. He looked like someone's father, and he probably was. Tysha tried to look into his eyes so that he could see that she was a person too, just like him, but he didn't look at her eyes.  The whole time, he never looked into her eyes.

After the Captain was done, the next man climbed on. He had dark hair and a handsome face with full lips. He didn't look into Tysha's eyes either. She understood then that she was not a person any more, not to this man, not to the Captain, or Tyrion's father, or any of the other men. She was merely a thing that connected them all together. They were participating in an event and she was the event.  All she could do was exist and watch their faces as they came and went, their expressions as they contorted with pleasure and power.

After the fifth man, she thought of Tyrion, and her heart hurt for him. Because she knew that being forced to witness this terrible thing, happening to someone he loved, would cause his heart to break. She imagined how she would feel if it were her, forced to watch Tyrion being tortured, and she couldn't do anything to stop it. If only she could have talked, she wanted to let him know that this horror would be over soon and just to stay strong, as she was.  _At least my first times were with you_ , she wanted to remind him. At least those times when they had undressed each other, explored one another's bodies with fumbling curiosity and awe, were full of joy and love. _They can't take that away from us. This will be over soon._

But it wasn't over soon, and after the tenth man, then the twentieth, she struggled to think about Tyrion. She struggled to think about anything. The faces came and went, came and went, an endless procession. Each was different featured, with skin lighter or darker, hair short or long. But all with the same expression.

The coins they pressed into her hands weighed back her fingers, they spilled out onto the bed and rolled to the floor. The thin light from the windows moved steadily across the walls as time passed, and still there were more coins, and still there were more men.

She saw their faces in front of her, but now they didn't register. Nothing registered any more to Tysha, only the breath entering and leaving her lungs and her heart beating, her mind holding tight to the hope that this could not last forever, and she had to stay strong.

The end when it finally came was simply a long absence, where one face left her field of vision, but was not immediately replaced by another. Like the loudness of silence when a deafening noise ceases. She lay there, the emptiness overwhelming, having forgotten everything, feeling the effect of the sedative beginning to wane, knowing only the thick cloying smell of men all around, and the dull ache in her belly and hips. She'd even forgotten Tyrion, her own husband. But now, Tyrion was there.

Her beloved Tyrion.  _It's over,_ she thought.  _It's really over. I survived._ As Tyrion leant over her she thought he was going to take her into his arms, help her to her feet, and comfort her. She reached for him. But then she felt the coin press into her hand and her heart stilled.

'Gold,' he said. It wasn't Tyrion speaking, even though it was his mouth that opened, and his voice said the words. 'Because a Lannister is worth more.'

Tyrion would not have said that to her. Nor would he have shoved her back down on the blood-stained bed, and undone his breeches, pushed up inside her to add his own seed to all the stinking mess of other men's seed, and sweat, and blood.  _He would never do that._ Out of all the men who raped her that day, Tyrion's face was the only one she didn't watch. She knew what he looked like, and this surely wasn't him.

As he grunted on top of her, Tysha looked up past him instead, to one of the narrow windows in the ceiling, and out beyond it into the blue sky.

She'd stayed strong, she wouldn't have thought she could have been so strong. But as the final degradation was inflicted, she died inside. Everything that had made her who she was in all of her fourteen and a half years, crumbled; everything she had been or was going to be, shattered. All her beliefs and goals and values, all her hopes and dreams, disintegrated to just so much dust.

Right before she closed her eyes and gave up, Tysha felt a tiny piece of herself detach from that which was left lying broken on the bed, rise above the sordid scene like a spark from a dying fire, and slip away out the high window. Only a tiny sliver of herself, escaping, but that was enough.


End file.
